


It Once Was Two

by ty_callisto



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angst, Childhood Friends, Eating Disorders, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Lee Donghyuck | Haechan & Mark Lee Are Best Friends, M/M, Sad, Suicide, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-10-01 16:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20340670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ty_callisto/pseuds/ty_callisto
Summary: It's been exactly twenty-eight hours since you left me.





	It Once Was Two

** It **

It’s been exactly twenty-eight hours since you left me.

You used to tell me time was always ticking so slowly, you would complain of the long and torturous seconds dragging out to become minutes, hours, days, weeks that never came to an end. I never understood this, everything had always seemed so rushed for me. Especially at this time, with the school year finally coming to an end and the next grade tumbling straight at us. It really doesn’t make sense, one moment we are rushing to get things done and the next we are waking up to start yet another day.

I think I’m starting to understand what you were always on about. Time had never really been a topic often discussed in the depths of my mind, I hardly ever paid attention to how many hours spent doing one thing or another. Life was always passing by in the blink of an eye, thinking about the seconds in a day would be a tedious and, frankly, unnecessary act.

But I get it now, love, I finally understand that time seems a thousand times longer when one’s thoughts revolve around the same thing over and over again.

Winter had always been my worst enemy, I’m sure you are aware of this. I could never fully understand what was so special about the snowflakes dusting the windows or the ice making cars dangerously slip on the roads. And the freezing temperatures are simply infuriating, the air the heaters produce makes my skin dry and my lips crack, I don’t see what so many people love about it all. I still recall that one night at your basketball game – that you had insisted I’d show up to – when there still wasn’t any snow but everything was freezing nonetheless. Barely anyone was there, the bleachers were practically empty save for me and a few of your teammates’ friends. We were cheering you on, and the energy created by simply watching you play warmed up my insides and drifted my thoughts away from the piercing cold.

Unsurprisingly, your team won. Of course they’d win, they had a star player such as yourself scoring half the total of points. But the adrenaline was quick to fade and as soon as you dragged me outside so we could walk back to my house, your sweaty hand in mine, the absurdly low temperature got to me. You asked me if I was cold because I was shaking so much, I said “No, I’m shaking because I’m holding hands with an angel,” and you laughed, shook your head and stopped walking. The hoodie you pulled off was disgusting, the bright green made me sick and the stench of sweat burned my nostrils. I made sure to remind you of all this and you told me not to wear it if it grossed me out so much. Sure, it smelled revolting and the color was dreadful, but it was so unmistakably _you_ that I couldn’t help but pull it over my head and grouchily grab your hand before continuing our walk.

It snowed just as we reached my house, much to my displeasure. I complained about all the work I’d have to go through to get rid of the pile of snow that’d block the garage and you didn’t say anything, only grabbed my hand and dragged me to the middle of the deserted street while I complained and whined for you to “Just get inside the goddamn house,”. When you grabbed my face with those nasty hands of yours and swiped your thumbs on my cheeks, muttering something that made my face flare up, I partially understood the beauty in this cursed season. The small white specks that landed on your eyelashes had my mind short-circuiting because how could someone be so frustratingly beautiful after hours of running around a court?

Thinking about how sickeningly sweet and romantic was the kiss we shared there, in the darkness of a deserted neighborhood with snow piling on our shoulders, used to make me cringe. Now I remember all the foreign emotions that sparked inside me, emotions that would have had me panicking and flinching away if it weren’t for your firm hold and your dry lips, and my heart clenches. I’d go through a lifetime of winter if it meant we could share another moment like that one, if it meant I could have you in my arms again.

Right now, sitting in the backseat of my father’s car and looking out at the snowy world, I fail to understand the spark of beauty I’d seen that night. It’s snowing, but nothing about the specks makes my mind stop working. The green hoodie still smells like you, but it lacks the warmth it had when you first gave it to me.

Time doesn’t make much sense to me, I can’t really tell you if I stay there, looking out at the nothingness and letting my mind swarm with empty emotions, for hours or minutes, perhaps even seconds. There’s a soft hand on my thigh but I can’t afford to look up. My mother says something and when I don’t answer, she sighs. Her door opens and the car is instantly filled with cold, but I barely register it, then she knocks on my window and gently opens the door. It takes more meaningless words and coaxing for me to step out of the vehicle.

The snow crunches under my feet as I’m guided towards wherever it is they’ve taken you. I can’t look up, not when I know what and who I’m going to see. There’s grass peeking out from under the thick white layer on the ground and it really shouldn’t be as interesting as it is, yet I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from it.

People I don’t know are whispering and muttering things I fail to catch. My parents keep walking, continue guiding me through the crowd of black shoes and black pants, everything so black. I realize now how much I’m standing out with this ridiculous hoodie but I can’t afford to be mad about it, not when your mom cries out and holds me tight, not so subtly taking the fabric between her fingers and touching her face with it. My mouth is still shut and I let her do what she wants, let her mutter sweet nothings about the two of us. A part of me wants to hug her back and whisper whatever reassurance I can muster in this haze I can’t seem to escape, but I don’t. She lets go and it feels even colder than before.

Your father isn’t here. I’m glad.

Everything becomes dead silent when I finally lift my eyes, that or my mind decides to simply shut down and block all the noise around us.

I saw you in a suit for the first time when we graduated from middle school. Sometimes I find some hidden photos of the two of us looking like little kids ready to take on the world, you in your overly fancy tuxedo and me in the same button-up I’d wear to every single special occasion. At that time, we were still a mix of confused emotions and frightening feelings we didn’t even dare discuss, but I can practically feel how my heart fluttered when I saw you.

At your mother’s wedding, you wore another suit. So much time had passed by and your growth spurt made it impossible to wear the other one. Not to mention how your shoulders had widened after you joined the school’s team or how your arms were beginning to look less like noodles and more human. The night before the ceremony we had a fight because your anxiety was making you spit out the dumbest things that had me fuming. I had already come to terms with what I felt, but you, not so much. My phone buzzed the whole night with message after message but I ignored it, even in the following morning I refused to even turn it on. When I showed up at the wedding’s location – your house, because your mother wanted something simple – in my own suit for the first time ever, you looked like you were about to cry, standing in the entrance and greeting everyone with that pathetic smile I could see right through.

My eyes met yours and although none of us said anything, the look you gave me said everything. Later that night, when the adults were too drunk to care for us, you wordlessly guided me towards your room and I silently followed. We sat down on the floor, our backs pressed against the closet, and I could practically hear all the thoughts swarming your mind. You were tense and it didn’t look like you’d say or do anything anytime soon, so I laid my head on your shoulder and you hesitantly stuffed your face in my hair. I teased you and asked if it smelt good, but you didn’t laugh, only inhaled and exhaled loud enough for me to hear.

I felt you smile as you whispered: “It always smells good, Donghyuck, _you_ always smell good,”. My heart skipped a beat and a voice in the back of my mind told me to grab this opportunity and just put an end to the mess our feelings were, but you stood and held out your hand to help me up before I could organize my thoughts. I smiled, but I was aware of how fake it seemed judging by the slight tug downwards of your lips.

No matter what occasion it is, no matter what is going on, you always manage to look breathtaking in your suits. Even now, you look amazing.

Your eyes are closed and your skin is even paler than it used to get during test periods. The suit you’re wearing is grey and gloomy, I’m sure you never would have chosen something so melancholic for yourself. It doesn’t fit you, but you look gorgeous, especially in the colorful bed of flowers you rest on top of. You look peaceful and it's so infuriatingly unlike you.

I wait to see your hands twitch and fidget around like they did when you were surrounded by too many people. I stare at your face and anticipate the slight furrow of your brows whenever I’d look at you for too long. I expect to see your feet tap against one another because you were always so restless when you’d lay down.

But none of that happens.

This isn’t you. It can’t be. It’s impossible for me to be looking at this body and even think this is you. We are immortal, don’t you remember, love? We’re going to graduate high school and move to the same city, I’m going to get into that college I always dreamed of and you’re going to get a scholarship at that same place. We’re going to graduate the same year and celebrate by disappearing, we’re going to spend months traveling all over the world and going places we had only ever imagined. We’re going to live the life you always dreamed of living, together, the both of us and no one else.

So tell me, love, how can this dead human lying peacefully in a casket be you when we were going to do all that?

I only notice I’ve started crying when a sob rips through my throat and my body lurches forward. Your skin feels unnaturally cold and I hate it, but I can’t let go of your hand and I can’t pull my forehead away from yours. I want your lips on mine but I can’t bring myself to do it, they find their way towards your cold and lifeless cheek instead. I’m aware you’ve never been a fan of my kisses on your cheeks, said they were too cheesy, but I truly hope you don’t mind just this one time. Just this one last time. One last time.

My father is the one that pulls me away and holds me in his embrace. It’s comforting, but not nearly as much as it would have been if it were you. I find it impossible to let go of your hand and I think I would have held on forever if mother didn’t split our fingers apart.

How I wish you would open your eyes and hold me as you used to when I wasn’t feeling good. How happy I would be to stuff my nose in your neck and inhale that cheap deodorant you loved for some goddamn reason. How exultant I would be if you cracked one of those terrible jokes of yours now. Love, I would do anything to have you step out of that cursed casket and continue living the perfect life we had planned out for ourselves.

Tell me it’s going to be okay, love. Tell me this isn’t what you wanted.

Tell me you didn’t do it on purpose.

** Was **

It’s been exactly one week since you left me.

During break I used to nag at you for always locking yourself up in your house and refusing to go out. Of course, I’d join you and we’d spend hours in the darkness of your room watching stupid movies that made me want to throw up and getting lost in our bodies, your teeth digging into my lip and my hands messing up the bird’s nest you called hair. You’d say I was a hypocrite because during winter I’d do the same thing, and I’d tell you it was different because during the summer it is actually possible to go out without freezing your toes off. In the end, I’d succeed in convincing you to go out and we’d make it to the convenience store a few blocks away from your house, grab some instant food and run back, only to spend the rest of whatever was left of that day on the kitchen floor, listening to your sad songs and making a mess of your house.

Fascinating how I’ve ended up doing what I always stood against. Except my room doesn’t feel as nice as yours. The walls are still painted black from my not-a-phase phase and the curtains are unusually sealed shut, blocking any light this dark winter had to offer. These days have been spent in bed, covered by the sheets and stashed away from the rest of the world. Mother sometimes knocks on my door and tries to get me to eat something, but my appetite has vanished completely and the mere thought of having her food makes my stomach churn. You loved anything she cooked, even the fried eggplant that tasted revolting. It’s not fair for me to enjoy something she’s made without you there to reassure her that it tastes splendid.

The corner of my room has been left untouched. I can’t even look at it without seeing the photos I’d taken of us together, of you in your basketball uniform, of the stray cat we used to feed everyday when we were younger. The dust beginning to gather on top of the objects should bother me like it always had, and it does, but there’s nothing I can do about it.

Memories of us together keep replaying in my head and I wish I had a button to just pause it. One moment I see your dumb smile after my failed attempts at flirting with you in those cheesy dates we’d go on at the river, the next we’re in the school’s storage room on the last floor, your head on my lap and my fingers in your hair as we silently wait for your mind to stop swirling and your tears to stop flowing. Every so often I think of the balled up paper with something sappy written on it that you’d throw at me from the other side of the classroom, then I remember that time one of the boys caught it and read it to the entire class. It hurt me and I thought it hurt you too, but you only snatched the paper away and threw a punch at the boy’s face, grabbing my hand and taking me away before he could even react.

It’s moments like that one that would have made more tears flow if my body weren’t so deprived of proper hydration, moments of euphoria and pure love for what we had and what were going to have. If only you knew how lucky I felt to have someone as amazing as you in my life for so long, someone I met when I was but a kid being forced to play with a stranger because our parents were friends. My younger self hadn’t realized at that time what you would come to mean to me. Ever since I could remember, it had been just the two of us against the world. We had our ups and downs, but, in the end, we were always on the same team, fighting against the same enemies and striving for the same outcomes. At some point, you became my other half, love, the one that completed me and made me feel like I was so much more. Practically my entire life was spent with me by your side and you by mine.

And I know the world is cold and unfair, we had talked about this so many times, but I didn’t expect this amount of cruelty piled up on me all at once. No matter how many times I stuff my nose into the pieces of clothing that you’d always leave behind whenever you slept over, nor how many memories of us together I replay in my mind, I can’t wrap my head around the fact that you left me, that you left this place much earlier than the universe had planned.

None of this feels real. Ten days ago I was kissing you silly because you got the top score on the project you were stressing over the whole month. Nine days ago we were sprinting out of your church because I might have said something that didn’t make the priest too happy but still made your mother laugh as dozens of old ladies looked at us in horror. Eight days ago I was complaining about how full I was while you nagged at me for ordering too many pizzas and for not listening when you told me we wouldn’t be able to eat it all on our own.

Seven days ago I was trying to remember how to breathe as your mother’s sobs sounded through the phone that’d shattered the second it hit the floor and the news sunk in.

Although I’ve spent all this time laying in my bed, exhausted by the overwhelming emotions I have yet to learn how to deal with, I haven’t necessarily gotten any sleep; how could I? If I do sleep I know I’ll dream with you, with us, with everything we had going on, and I don’t think I can handle that just yet. My greatest wish at the moment is to be buried alive by the dark blankets on my bed and drowned by your smell all over me, but that goddamn reasonable part of my mind is telling me to get up and do _something_. It wants me to hug my mother and tell her I’ll be okay, let her know that she doesn’t have to worry for me.

So, I do just that. Well, my voice doesn’t seem to be working and I can’t find the will to actually speak up, but when I kick away the blankets and garments around me, creep towards the living room and spot my mother there, looking so tired and completely ruined, I find it in me to throw myself in her arms. She holds me tight, digs her fingers in my hair and presses me as close as she possibly can, and I do the same to her.

Then she says something that makes my blood run cold and my spine shiver. In a hushed voice, she whispers; “Whenever you need it, if ever you need it, talk to me. Don’t let it get too much, baby. It can be hard, it can be so hard, but don’t ever give up, okay? Promise me you’ll never give up,” and I close my eyes with a choked sigh.

You had promised me the same thing, and who were you to lie about something like that?

Love, unfortunately, you’re a liar. And as I nod my head, muttering the same words you had said to me so long ago, I fear I might become one as well.

** Never **

It’s been exactly three weeks and two days since you left me.

The second to last desk on the far right corner of the classroom has been coated by a layer of sweet words etched in with colorful markers, and in the middle, framed with stickers, flowers and whatever they managed to glue on, is a photo of you, the one that made it into the school’s paper after you won third place in the school’s annual nerd competition, as I would always call it. Your hair was a complete disaster because no matter how many times I tried to fix it, you’d always mess it up again. The photo was taken unexpectedly, your eyes are widened comically and your mouth is open in mid-laughter, and I clearly remember snickering and teasing you for how much you looked like a _baby _in it.

My fingers dance on the edges of the desk, carefully avoiding the fresh ink that might smudge this piece of art created in your name only. There are still faint scratches from the times you’d get distracted and scraped the once smooth surface with the blade of your scissors.

The names written on the desk make my insides twist. Our school used to be such an amazing place, you were known by everyone and anyone for being the role model student with charming features and an adorable personality that was impossible to not fall in love with. I was your best friend, the boy that never left your side, nobody had ever seen us apart. But I can accurately pinpoint the exact moment everything went downhill, when slurs began being shouted out whenever I’d walk through the halls, when words were starting to be whispered every time I’d sit near someone, when our friends no longer looked at us the same way.

Seeing the names of the people that had done so much against us does things to me and I have to take a moment to breathe. It’s not fair that the boys in your basketball team have all signed the desk with half-assed apologies and their “greatest sorrows”, not when they were the ones that nudged and pushed you and called you things after they found out. And it doesn’t make sense that what once was our group of friends have written paragraphs and paragraphs about how much you’d be missed and how important you were to them, not when they were the ones that shut us out and refused to even look us in our eyes after we told them.

I can’t help but scoff at the hypocrisy of it all.

A part of me wants to sit here, at your desk, and not give a single care to anyone opposed to the idea. But, as much as the artists of this work infuriate me, it feels unfair to destroy something made entirely for you. My seat, rows and rows away from yours, looks completely abandoned and grey. Then again, the entire school seems that way. I don’t think you ever noticed how big of a difference your presence made.

Students are beginning to file in the classroom and I realize that perhaps I’ve been staring at your desk for a few moments too long. It’s impossible to ignore the surprised looks I receive or the conversations that immediately die down once I’m spotted. My eyes stay down even as I walk towards my place, even as I sit down at my grey desk without bothering to acknowledge the people so openly staring at me.

Love, what would you say if you saw me right now? If you saw the dark circles under my eyes and the shadow permanently casted over my face, if you noticed how my clothing looked three times bigger or how my cheeks have sunken in. I’m aware of how I look and I know its disgusting, I’ve spent hours looking in the mirror, tracing every single detail that wasn’t there before you left me. I can’t bother with fixing that up, I really couldn’t care less, frankly.

Perhaps if you were here I would put more thought to my appearance and not show up to this hell of a place looking like a literal zombie. But your desk is still empty, your presence is still nonexistent and your body is still buried somewhere dark, therefore I find no point in taking any interest in how I look.

I can feel some of the students hesitating near me, most likely wondering if they should approach me or not, yet nobody does and I’m thankful for it. I don’t think I’d be too happy if one of _them_ came up to me with there last-minute apologies in the hopes of getting rid of the guilt that has probably haunted them for the past three weeks. There’s a dark feeling inside me, one that I’ve never been acquainted with, and it makes a small part of me feel sick. This feeling is making me wish for the guilt to follow these people for the rest of their lives, for them to know that _yes, it was your fault, he wouldn’t have left if not for your doing._

Something sparks inside me and I’m quick to push it down. There is no point in letting my anger get to me now.

Certainly, I would have stayed at home if that decision was actually one I was allowed to make. My parents insisted that I should not stay at home for so long, they said I’d already gotten my time to grieve, but I needed to start getting better. They mean good, I’m sure of it, my mother only wants me to stay away from the infinite dark pit threatening to swallow me whole and my father simply wants his son back. The thing is, I wasn’t ready. I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. Ready for the pitiful looks I’m given everywhere I go, ready for the teachers’ voice softening embarrassingly whenever they’d address me, ready for how empty this vast building seems without you by my side.

Everything said during class comes in through one ear and out the other. No one really expects me to pay any attention to the topics discussed during class, and I fulfill these expectations. The clock hanging right above the doorframe is the only thing my mind registers, the rhythmic ticking echoes in my head and my eyes follow the arrowheads. When the bell rings, I don’t even wait a second to get up and leave the suffocating classroom.

It sounds painfully cliché to say this, but our little spot at the rooftop used to be my favorite place. It’s open for all the students, nothing like the forbidden area lovebirds would sneak up to in cheesy romance stories, but the corner right behind the huge dumpsters was _our spot_, completely hidden from the monitors; so we could carelessly dangle our legs over the ledge; so I could mindlessly lay my head on your shoulder; so you could thoughtlessly whisper sweet nothings to me.

Now I’m staring at the same spot, no large dumpster to be seen and a metallic fence preventing anyone from dangling off the ledge. Something about this makes me mad, how the school seems to suddenly care, but I’m too tired to actually let the anger set aflame. Instead, I sit with my back against the wall and my forehead against the foreign metal, staring down at the empty streets.

The unfamiliar feeling still lingers inside me. I wish I could blame someone, anyone, I wish I could point fingers at everyone who ever did cruel things to you or scream and yell at those who abandoned you for the dumbest of reasons. I want them to know that you’re gone and it’s completely their fault, but I don’t even know who _they_ are.

Can I blame your father for abandoning the beautiful family he had managed to completely tear apart? If not, then what of the people that dropped you the second they heard of us, the same people that you had put so much trust in? Then how about the teachers and adults that piled mountains of stress onto you to the point that a grade below perfection was to be considered an absolute failure?

I’m crying again and I absolutely _hate _it. This makes me feel pathetic. You make me feel pathetic, love, always have. But it was different when we were together because I don’t mind feeling pathetic under your dark gaze and firm grip, I don’t mind melting into a mess because of the smallest things you say.

Yet I despise this pure desperation and the feeling of failure after failure.

The bell rings, and I would have stayed here for as long as I wanted if not for the hand on my shoulder and a voice telling me to get back to class.

** Only **

It’s been exactly twelve weeks since you left me.

The question first passed through my mind when I was listening to the infinite playlist on your phone. Your father had found the cursed object a few weeks ago but it took me a while to gather the courage to even touch it. I hadn’t looked through your things; I respect your privacy, even if you don’t have it anymore. But when I unlocked it a few hours before, after having spent an eternity just staring at the familiar shattered screen, the first thing that showed up were those damn songs you’d always listen to. I remembered teasing you because I thought they all sounded the same, but only then I found the time to properly listen to the different melodies and memorize the steady beats.

_“What if it was all my fault?”_ the demonic voice whispered in my head.

That day, hours before I had received the phone call from your mother, we had been eating ice cream at my favorite place, careless of the piercing cold. You seemed off, I noticed the second I saw the bags under your eyes and the permanent frown deeper than usual. But I didn’t say anything, because I’d talked to you about it before and no matter how many times you’d break down or how many tears would be shed, you’d always tell me in the end to not worry about it.

I should have said something. That day, out of all the others, I chose not to say anything.

I should have said something.

I should have done something.

I should have _said_ something, anything.

_“This wouldn’t have happened if I’d stayed with him a little longer,” _it muttered.

Whenever you would fall apart a bit more than usual, I’d tell you to get help, I’d offer any sort of service I could afford. Hell, I even suggested speaking to your parents for you, letting them know the weight on your shoulders was getting too much and you needed someone to help you carry it. But you would smile with your adorably crooked teeth, use the sleeves of your unlimited collection of sweaters to wipe away the tears on my face and assure me everything would be okay.

It’s not okay, love. Nothing is ever okay when you’re not here.

_I _should have been the one taking away the weight on your shoulders.

It should have been me, if only I’d been there when you needed it.

_“I shouldn’t have let him be alone.”_

_“I should have taken him home with me that day.”_

_“I should have hugged him tighter.”_

I screamed, ripped the earphones out and threw the phone against my wall. It shattered completely, falling to worthless pieces on the ground with a few crackles as the music slowly died down. I kept on screaming and when my head began to hurt I threw it back, barely caring for the way it banged against the wall and made my eyes burn. I kept on screaming and when my throat burned I let the pain wash over me, ignoring how I felt my skin tearing. I kept on screaming and when my bedroom door flew open, my father threw his arms around me, holding me despite the way I kicked and scratched at his arms.

That was a month ago.

My stomach churns as I jog through the track field in the cheap uniform our school can afford. P.E. had never been my fort, but you would always play around and urge me to keep on going. My coach had excused my lack of participation for the first few classes, but even the teachers were beginning to get tired of my missing motivation.

The problem with this particular class is that I can’t breathe or think or make my body work because I can’t even remember the last time I swallowed anything with any caloric value. People have noticed, some have even commented on it, but I can’t bring myself to tell them why I’ve shrunk to half the size I used to be. Some ignorant ones may think it’s for the appearance. Others, who know better, will try and rationalize and say it’s a way of coping. But I can’t tell them what it is because I myself have no idea.

I only noticed how many memories are tied to food once you left me. Lunch, for example, is impossible, because every time I climb up to _our spot_ I think of us and the way we’d always share our lunch boxes and how you’d make me eat more because you never wanted me to “lose my baby fat”. I can’t have dinner, not when memories of us laying on your couch eating tons of pizza like pigs swarm my head. Breakfast had never even been a part of my diet, and it certainly wasn’t now.

Doing P.E. on a completely empty stomach isn’t the smartest, but I’ve set myself to a permanent self-destruction mode and I’m afraid I don’t care for doing something about it. I’ve lasted this long, it’d be touché for something to happen during this specific class that constantly talks about health and gives us half-assed explanations as to why eating disorders are so dangerous and why none of us should go through anything like that.

But suddenly I’m on the cold hard ground of the track field with someone fanning me and my body on another’s lap. I can’t open my eyes but I feel hands on my limbs and something being clasped around my head. There are voices, too many of them, but my mind is swirling with a strange mix of pain and numbness.

Mother is worried. So worried that when I finally awaken hours later on the hospital bed, she wraps her arms around me and sobs into my chest, apologizing for some damn reason and whispering words that I still can’t process. Father is also there, standing beside my bed, but he doesn’t say anything. The look on his face is unreadable and for a second I get a hint of anger, but the door is opened and an old women dressed in a lab coat and plastering a warm smile grabs my attention instead.

Her name is irrelevant and she has just informed me that I suffer from Anorexia Nervosa.

Days pass by, me in the hospital bed watching the clock tick. Some of the people we used to know visit me and try to talk, but I can’t even meet their gazes. The one with crescent eyes when he smiles had already approached me in school, accompanied by his best of friends, the one that’s eyes used to sparkle every time he’d see us before our secret was no longer ours, but they hadn’t gotten any words out of me. The boys I recognize to be from your team also come for some unknown reason and as much as I don’t care for them, I can’t help but notice how grey they all look.

_Yes, it was your fault, he wouldn’t have left if not for your doing._

The food they force inside me feels wrong in all ways possible. The weight in my stomach is unwelcome and more than once I find myself hunched over the side of the hospital bed, staring down at the disgusting mixture my body refuses to digest. I hate it, I hate everything about it; the food, the place, the people, the therapist I’m being forced to see. He’s nice, I know he is, but I don’t want to tell him _what’s been going on in my mind_ or _what is troubling me the most. _

And the question never leaves, never has left ever since it first appeared.

_“What if it really was all my fault?”_

I find that I miss you the most when I can’t sleep. Obviously I miss you all the time, love, don’t misunderstand. But before you left, every time I’d close my eyes and fail to enter the euphoric world of slumber, you’d be on the other line of the phone call, waiting for hours on end just to make sure I could sleep.

Now, at this ungodly hour, I want your voice coming through my phone.

But this longing is interrupted by the same demonic voice that has grown far too attached to me. It tells me I was selfish; selfish for keeping you up all those nights just so _I_ could rest; selfish for hardly ever being the one urging _you_ to fall asleep; selfish for taking advantage of your adoration and helping myself to the banquet of love you always had to offer.

It’s been three months, but the wounds are all still fresh. Was it really not yesterday that my mother was cradling me in her arms on the kitchen floor as I cried for your name?

_“Was it really all my fault?”_

Love, I must apologize. For the mistakes, for the missed calls, for all the times I couldn’t be there for you. I’m sorry for going home earlier that day, I should have stayed longer no matter how tired I was. Your life was worth so much more than a few more hours of sleep.

I hate myself so much, love. It hurts, thinking about how I could have saved you if I had not been such an idiot. The worst part is that I’m aware this is a pain you’ve met before, countless times. If only I had stayed awake for long enough to answer your call.

_“All my fault.”_

Wouldn’t it be delightful if we met again?

** One **

It’s been exactly four months since you left me.

And what a gloomy day it is, extremely cliché of me to choose such weather to take my life in. The sky is grey, the city is eerie and the world is dull. I had left the hospital a couple of times to spare me some of my sanity, but now it feels different because no one is babysitting me as I wander through the streets.

When a letter arrived for me, I really hadn’t known what to expect – this form of communication is much too outdated if you asked me. But your neat handwriting really wasn’t what I thought I’d see. For a second I imagined it was a joke, a cruel prank to pull on a wounded boy forever mourning over a lost love. But there is no way anyone would ever manage to perfect the curve of your letters or to flick your dots the exact same way you did.

I thought I knew what pain was before reading that letter, but clearly I hadn’t been prepared for the words you wrote for me.

That same letter is being held tightly in my hands right now, clutched against my chest as if this would bring you closer. My vision is blurry from tears I cannot see and my feet take me places I fail to really care for. What a mess I must look like, with my hospital bed hair and the same baggy clothes I’ve worn for the past few months. I’m not sure how long they’d planned to keep me trapped there, but apparently, I wasn’t gaining even a fraction of the weight necessary to be discharged.

Love, do you remember the day we had been marching back home from school when we ran into a crowd huddled under a tall bridge on the highway? Later we found out a poor girl had decided this world was too cruel for her.

Now I stand where she once stood, now I stand where you stood four months ago.

Am I being selfish again? Mother and father certainly won’t be happy about this, but, frankly, who else would even care? As much as I hate seeing them cry, the thought of seeing you again makes all the pain worth it. Because I miss you, love. I’ve never missed anything as much as I miss you and every single thing about you. When I say I would give anything to have you back, I literally mean _I would give anything in this damn world to have you back_.

Questions flood my mind, questions that haven’t left ever since your departure.

Why did you do it, love? Why did you take away that precious life of yours? The letter I received today was beautiful, yes, but not once did you inform me _why_.

That is all I want to know. I don’t care who’s fault it was anymore.

Now I’ll have the chance to ask you myself.

My, my, how happy I’ll be when I see you, Mark Lee.

** And it never really will be **

It’s been exactly three days since the school lost one more.

If you were one of the students sitting on the bleachers, you would feel the suffocating tension. Certainly there would be tears in your eyes, whether you knew the lost boy or not, whether you were one that left him or one that was never even close to him. You would be in tears because not a single student there isn’t. The unspoken weight they carry would be on your shoulders as well, the weight of the lives of two boys who knew a different kind of love the world failed to understand.

If you were one of the teachers standing on the makeshift stage, you would drown in the pain climbing up your throat. It is most likely that there would be tears in your eyes, whether you taught the lost boy or not, whether you greeted him in the hallways or barely recalled ever seeing him at all. Perhaps you would be in tears because some teachers chose to let their open wounds bleed out while others forced their shattered strength to hold back the flood of emotions. The unspoken weight they carry would be on your shoulders as well, the weight of the lives of two boys who knew a different kind of love the world failed to understand.

If you were simply a person in a car passing by the grey school, you would sense the wrongness of it all. Maybe there wouldn’t be tears in your eyes, maybe there would, whether you knew the reason for the melancholy or not, whether you chose to ignore the foreign sadness creeping up or decided to let the feeling consume your body. Maybe or maybe not, you would be in tears because somewhere near that place is a couple that once were parents, standing in an abandoned room – the husband holds his love like she’s going to slip away and the wife buries her face in her love’s chest like he is the only thing she can hold onto. The unspoken weight they carry would be on your shoulders as well, the weight of the lives of two boys who knew a different kind of love the world failed to understand.

A kind of love Lee Donghyuck could not stand to live without.

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**Author's Note:**

> Hello!!  
My intention is absolutely not to romanticize mental health issues and other disorders, I'm very sorry if it came out that way.  
If you ever need it, get help, suicide is not the answer to anything.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, please comment what you thought!  
Also, English isn't my first language so I sincerely apologize for any mistakes.  
Until next time!


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